enough to induce a sticky discomfort for everyone in the room, and then, he resumed his rant.
I dunno what I’m doing ‘ere – forty fucken years and it’s come to this. Eight and a half people come to see me perform. Why’d I even bother? Why’d you all even bother? – what’s the bloody point? What the hell are we doing in this dump? This is shitty excuse for a pub, isn’t it? You wanna hear a real joke, do ya? – your Tuesday night – what a fucken waste.
Dougie cast his head back up at the room, he saw a new figure, standing somewhere near the door. He’d been too busy cursing the couple to notice the man’s entry. The familiar outline of an old friend rendered the comic mute, bringing a holt to his rage. His presence sucked the fury from Sandy’s soul, and his cast his eyes toward the floor in a shameful frown. Dougie was silent for more than a minute, locked in a bashful smile with his new guest.
(Pointing at the man in the doorway.)
That’s my mate, Trevor Hobart, over there – ya remember him?
He finally resumed his show, pointing to the man who stood by the door.
He used to be famous too, now he works for the council – maybe I should come join ya, mate, what’d ya reckon?
The man in the doorway turned his back and left the room, Sandy could see through the open hall he’d gone into the bar.
Ah, I reckon I’m about done up here.
Dougie announced. The MC, still at the back, throw his hands up in protest of his performance. He started a march for the stage, and shouted as he came.
(Shouting at DOUGIE.)
What the fuck is this, mate? – what kinda of performance you call this?
Dougie returned his attention to the room, and replied to the approaching MC, in a melancholy despondency.